Tattoos Together
by thephoenixandtheflame
Summary: "Granger," he begins, and Hermione feels her stomach drop, "What are the odds you get a tattoo-" an evil grin is spreading across Draco's face, "With me. Tonight."
1. Chapter 1

A little, lighthearted one-shot for my favorite pairing. Based on the insanely catchy "Tattoos Together" by Lauv.

_Said I'd never fall, I'd never fall,_

_I'd never fall, but then I fell for you._

"6…5…4….3…2…"

"Merlin's saggy left ARSE-"

"Bloody fucking bugger."

"That was disgusting, Ronald."

No one has finished the golden broomstick, not yet, at least, but it is Ronald Bilius Weasley who manages to drain the entire thing, standing on a table at the Leaky Cauldron. It was a massive, thin sort of glass contraption that held enough butterbeer to fell a centaur. A small centaur, to be sure, but the Weasley's were always good at holding their liquor. Tom the Barman had come up with it after Hagrid had requested a more festive receptacle for drink than his usually rough hewn bucket, and it had turned into a bit of a competition among younger ministry employees.

"I'll never understand where the hell he puts it all," Ginny Weasley comments to a very tipsy and very indignant looking Hermione Granger, who snorts loudly and finishes her drink. It is a mystery to her, too, or perhaps not so much a mystery- since despite his massive caloric intake and affinity for mulled mead, he was still as skinny as the day she'd met him.

"Oh – and here comes Lavender – you'd think the two of them would have at least learned some decency in 10 years, I mean really – he's got his tongue in her trachea," Ginny rolls her eyes, a gesture that extends to her shoulders as she whirls around, scanning the crowded bar. "Where the hell is Harry? Probably sidling around somewhere – I did see him talking to Malfoy a minute ago, now that I'm thinking about it – "

"Malfoy?" Hermione finally speaks, tearing her eyes away from the spectacle that is Lavender dry humping a half-lucid Ron into a nearby chair. "He's talking to Malfoy?"

"Come off it, Hermione," Ginny groans, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the bar, "You spend so MUCH time in the DRCMC that you miss absolutely everything. Malfoy's working for Harry now – they've got some sort of rehabilitation arrangement thingy going on – oh jesus, THERE you are, Harry – see, I told you he'd be sidling."

Harry was, in fact, sidling up to them, a bemused expression on his face and a tumbler of firewhiskey in one hand. Catching sight of Ginny, he yanks her to him and plants a kiss on her cheek, causing her to giggle and shove him away. Hermione fixes him with one of her very best glares, but it comes out a little wonky because she's still, unfortunately, drunk.

"Harry – Ginny told me about Malfoy? Please tell me he's not actually working for you and it was just a figure of speech, or whatever-"

"I swear we've already had this conversation," Harry raises his eyebrows and flashes a grin at Ginny, "You never listen to me when you're in the middle of a case. Unicorns and doxies, wasn't it?"

"It was an important case! Don't change the subject!"

Harry finishes his firewhiskey and another somehow appears in front of him, courtesy of a wizard at the end of the bar. It's always courtesy of someone, which is sort of a perk of being the savior of the wizarding world. Among other things.

Hermione's crossing her arms and ordering another drink, and Ginny scampers off to join George in a round of shots, and she sees him.

Blonde and tall and too fucking expensive for the Leaky Cauldron, as per usual. And he looks like he's enjoying himself, which might be even worse.

"Harry," she hisses, "Harry – why'd they let him come back? After the trials and the reparations?"

"Hermione," Harry replies, patiently, clasping her shoulder, "We're keeping an eye on him. He's still a bit of dick, but that's a vast improvement, let me tell you – and he's sworn off the whole blood purity bit. Kingsley wouldn't have hired him if –"

"He's a CRIMINAL!" Hermione glares at Malfoy even though she's sure he can't see her.

"Why don't you go talk to him?"

"I'm not – what the hell – no!" Hermione splutters, "I'm not going to go talk to him, for Godric's sake Harry, it's as if you think I've got a death wish."

"C'mon," Harry goads, grinning at her, "He's not so bad. Sort of intelligent, passable conversationalist, and hasn't said the m word in about five years, according to his probation officer."

"Will you just listen to yourself?"

"I am. I sound bloody fantastic."

"You're drunk," says Hermione, attempting to impale the cherry at the bottom of her drink with such ferocity that she nearly upends it.

"If my calculations are correct, that makes approximately two of us."

Hermione scowls at Harry one more time, for good measure, and stomps off to find Luna or Hannah or SOMEONE that doesn't believe in the merits of Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy is surveying the landscape with something like disgusted fascination. Another one of these ministry parties where all the Weasleys get fucking plastered and he's left trying to find someone who will willingly sleep with him with a faded Dark Mark and a load of unpleasant baggage.

But for right now, he's just thankful to be here, secretly grateful for the drink Harry hands him, the unspoken inclusion into this frantic, colorful, chaotic world. And then–

He sees her before she sees him, and of course she looks fucking wonderful, because she always looks fucking wonderful, even when she's wearing those horrific ministry robes and her ridiculous hair is everywhere and she's got ink splatters on her nose.

The first time he thought she was beautiful he thought it there was something seriously wrong with his eyesight. The second time, he wondered if it was just some kind of unfortunate personal failing. After that, he just resigned himself to the fact that she is brilliant and infuriating and beautiful, and he doesn't give a fuck what color her blood is. Which is a stunning revelation.

And fuck, she's glaring at him and he just wants to shove her up against a wall and kiss the furrows out of her brow and it's just one more thing in a long, long list of things that he wants to do to her. He clearly makes her furious, which is _something_. It's better than indifference, which is what he tells himself as she marches along the bar and out of sight.

_Back against the wall, against the wall  
Against the wall, that's how it felt with you._

Hermione Granger does know how to walk at anything that qualifies as a leisurely pace, especially when she's at work. She is either marching or sprinting, fast and nearly always furious. And right now she is LIVID, because her supposed best friend Harry Potter has just informed her that the memo she desperately needs is currently in the hands of none other than Draco Malfoy.

Which is just too perfect, really, considering that it's Monday and is an absolutely atrocious day already, due in part to her incompetent intern and the slightly less than satisfying funding approval and now - _now_ this damn memo.

And so, she's marching through the hallway, her hair at least two times the size it normally is, and Ministry employees are practically jumping out of her way, and then – of course, there he is.

"Malfoy." She skids to a halt in front of him, rearranging her expression into what she hoped was cool, professional indifference. Malfoy was not going to have the pleasure of seeing just how flustered she felt. "You've got my memo."

He's lounging against the wall in his expensive robes and his Italian loafers, smirking at her. He looks like he owns the entire hallway and it's completely and utterly infuriating. How does he still afford to look that _completely_ ridiculous (good, delicious, perfect).

"Is this yours?" He says, innocently, holding up the folder of parchment. "This memo? The one with – let's see – Bixby's signature?"

"Yes, it is," Hermione grits her teeth, trying not to hex him despite how badly she'd like to. One simple jelly legs jinx and she'd have her memo and her day would only be half ruined.

"Bowtruckle populations in – Bath? How fascinating. You must need this - " he pauses, savoring the look on her face, "Very badly."

"What did I just bloody say?" Hermione says it loudly, and the smirk is suddenly wider, eyes glittering.

"Ah, ah, Granger," he says, goading, grinning, "You'll have to play nice if you want it."

Hermione steps closer, her hair crackling with electricity. She tries to keep her voice steady, tries to sound long-suffering instead of indignant. "Please, Malfoy, I'm extremely busy and I really need that."

"But this is so much fun," Draco drawls, and Hermione steps closer, and suddenly she's much too close and Malfoy is holding the folder out of her reach, and without really thinking about it, she jumps for it.

He pulls it out of her reach and slides off the wall, moving so quickly Hermione is barely able to turn around, and then he's got her pinned up against the wall, the weight of him so incomparably _warm _that for a second Hermione forgets she needs the memo more than she needs this – or is the other way around?

And for a second Draco Malfoy can't breathe because she smells like fucking apples and cinnamon and how does she – how can she smell that good – and then –

Blinding fucking pain.

Hermione knows how to throw an elbow, and she's not above doing it for an important memo, and especially not above it when it comes to the very person she'd punched in the face third year.

"Don't get in my way, Malfoy," she says, and then she marches back down the hall, heart pounding, cheeks considerably pinker than a few moments ago.

And it's a testament to the electricity in the air that Hermione can't stop thinking about how he smells like rain and firewood and it's so _contradictory. _She wonders, vaguely, if he will be at the Leaky on Friday.

_You weren't even my girlfriend  
We were walkin' and talkin'  
Then somebody said, "Let's get tattoos together, something to remember"_

"Alright, dickheads, twatbags, arseheads and holes," Lee Jordan takes a seat to a burst of virtuous applause, "It's time for – a little drumroll, if you please, George," he says pointedly to George Weasley, who begins to pound the table in glee, "A GAME."

Everyone cheers, even Hermione, who is trying to avoid Malfoy's gaze, wedged between Angelina and Ginny. She has no idea how he was included in Lee's weekly game, but there he is, and he seems to be glaring at her. Or maybe it's just a very stern glance, but she did elbow him in the dick a week ago and he's not the forgiving type.

So, of course, she does what anyone would do. She downs her drink, smiles and ignores him.

"The game is Odds Are. One person will prompt another in this" he gestures around, "lovely group and then they will state their odds. You will both choose a number – but DO NOT share it. Fair play, alright? Then I'll count you down, and if you both say the same number – the person who was PROMPTED has to complete the prompt . As with all our games – no backing down and"

"NO BACKING OUT!" The rowdy group slams down their respective pints, and the game is afoot.

It is wild from the start. Lavender is already down two pieces of clothing, which forces Lee to ban her from partnering up with Ron for the rest of the game. Ginny serenades a total stranger with an acoustic version of "A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love," George kisses Harry square on the mouth, and Hermione receives an extremely lewd lap dance from none other than Seamus Finnigan.

Lee is giving out drinks right and left, as he suspects _some_ people (Neville) are abstaining, and after another hour, the table is getting rowdier and rowdier.

"No one's done a really good one yet," George says to Angelina, loudly, "I want to see some unbreakable vows – don't look at me like that, Ronniekins – or at least – a tattoo, now that Millicent's opened that studio-"

It is at this precise moment that Lee landed on Malfoy with what could only be described as – well -trepidation would be the word. It takes them awhile to get around the room, what with all the drinking and shouting and losing going on, and the tension is palpable as the table quiets. Draco's odds are low that night, mostly drinks, and he is now approximately one sifter past logical.

Which would explain what happens next.

"Alright, Draco, pick your partner and your odds, if you please," Lee says, with the frank professionalism of a card dealer. No one is shouting anymore, even the drunkest watching Draco with rapt attention.

"Granger," he begins, and Hermione feels her stomach drop, "What are the odds you get a tattoo," an evil grin begins to spread across Draco's face, "With me. Tonight."

Silence.

"Mate.." says Harry, shaking his head.

"I told him not to do it," says Theo, wisely, sitting back.

"You were egging him on," Blaise rolls his eyes and shoves Theo and they grin, menacingly in sync.

"That's what I'm talking about!" exclaims George.

"He _is_ a Death Eater," whispers Ron, loudly.

"You don't have to do it!" Hannah chirps, squeezing Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione shoots Malfoy her coldest, most impenetrable stare. Several people at the table shiver and silently thank the Gods they've never been on the receiving end of one of those. Lee swallows once, then twice. Ron snorts and shakes his head. Ginny wonders why she feels like she's missing something, however small that something is.

"Fine," Hermione says, coolly, "One in ten." There's a collective gasp. Even Draco looks surprised that she'd go so low, but he knows it's a dare. Where's that Gryffindor bravery now, Granger?

Lee counts very slowly, and when they both speak, it's in unison.

"3."

Hermione goes white. Draco tries not to look smug. Tattoos he has, and one more won't matter. But a tattoo with Granger? That was positively scandalous. He likes to shock, and he's gotten good enough at it to silence the table.

Check and mate, Granger.

In the end, it is decided that Ginny will accompany Hermione to Millicent's Magnificent Tattoos & More. And because Ginny's going, Harry has to go, and then Ron won't let Hermione "alone with that smug bastard," so Lavender's going too. And then Lee has to go, because fair is fair, and by the end of it there's a small contingent of people following them out.

Draco is striding along, as pleased with himself as he could possibly be, when a hand wrenches him back and he stumbles for a second.

He wasn't expecting her to be so strong, although judging by the elbow she'd thrown at the Ministry, she was scrappier than she looked.

"Hey," she hisses, her expression mutinous.

"Why, hello there, Granger," he says, smirking slightly, "Excited for our little outing?"

"You're a complete and utter swine, Draco Malfoy."

"Sticks and stones, Granger," he turns and continues up the street, amused by the way she's trying to keep up with him, jogging right below his elbow, the heat radiating off her in waves.

"Are you doing this," she starts, still whispering, "Because of – " she glances back at the rowdy group behind them, as if afraid they'll overhear, "Because of what happened at the ministry?"

Hermione hasn't told them about their encounter. What a curious thought.

"You really think I'm that vengeful?"

"Yes," she exclaims, "Based on past evidence I'd say you're _extremely _vengeful, but this seems like a bit much, even for you."

"What, Granger, " he stops in front of the parlor, a garish maroon display illuminated by neon pink lights. "Are you scared? Because you can always back out, you know, if-"

"I'm not. Scared." She spits it at him, her cheeks rosy in the pink light. She looks furious, and beautiful, and he aches to reach out and touch her, but he can't, so he holds the door open for her instead.

Hermione sweeps inside without looking at him, and he calls after –

"Something to remember me by, Granger."

Hermione hates needles. Wizards and witches don't think much of needles, because they don't use them and don't need to. But Hermione's had plenty of shots, and she doesn't relish the thought of that needle crossing her skin a million times.

Couldn't she always remove it by magic? She files that thought away for later. If it takes her years, she's going to figure it out. Nothing is worse than permanence, especially Malfoy-led permanence.

"So -what'll it be?"

Millicent Bulstrode is large and ugly, as she's always been, but there is more kindness around her mouth now. Hermione is strangely comforted by this, and she doesn't shrink from the odd catalogue of shining, twisting shapes.

"Malfoy picks," says Lee, and Hermione shoots him one of her looks, and he just shakes his head because he's been on the receiving end before, and her bark is worse than her bite. Sometimes.

It surprises literally no one when Malfoy picks a dragon. It's a pretty dragon, Hermione has to admit, ocean blue and silvery scaled, the illusion of magical ink making it climb the skin.

"You know, you don't have to do this," whispers Ginny, squeezing her arm.

"Yes, she does," Lee interjects, and Ginny punches him and he yelps loudly, and for a second Hermione considers, just _considers _telling Malfoy to shove it.

But then she sees his face, expectant and challenging and something else she doesn't quite have a name for, and she sits down in the chair, cheeks red, eyes bright.

"Fuck it," she says, to more perfectly timed, collective gasps. "Whatever."

Ginny's holding her hand when she finally lifts her shirt, holding the edge to her chest. Ron's scowling at everyone who will notice him, and nobody really sees Draco's intake of breath.

"Ow," Hermione bites out. It stings, painful and metallic, and she is trying not to cry and trying not to remember cold stone floors and blunt knives and screaming, screaming.

"Done." Millicent sits back with a flourish and Hermione looks down. It is beautiful, a tiny dragon spiraling up her ribcage, and for a single, delicious, second, the ache makes her head clear.

And then she sees Draco's shoulder, and the tiny blue dragon that climbs over the muscle, and she feels a feeling she can't name yet.

"I need a drink," she says to Ginny, and Ginny nods, understanding, following her gaze to the twin blue dragon.

_One weekend, no sleepin'  
You weren't even my girlfriend, yeah  
We were kissin', like, real kissin'_

When Harry Potter proposes to Ginny Weasley, it happens at the Leaky – because of course, it happens at the Leaky. He always says he's going to do it at the Burrow but he's finished one half of a golden broomstick and he has the ring already and it feels perfect, anyways, to be here with the people he loves most in the world.

And everyone's crying, of course, and Tom the Barman kicks everyone else out because this is now an _engagement party _and Hermione drinks far more than she's ever drunk before because despite how happy she is, she is being confronted with the very real possibility of being alone forever.

Depressing, but not as depressing as sobriety in the face of true love.

"You'll be my best woman, of course," Ginny giggles, throwing her hands around Hermione's neck in a embrace that smells like rum and flowers and Hermione is crying, of course, because hope is an extraordinary and beautiful thing.

"Not if she's my woman of honor," says Harry, and he's slurring a little bit and looking at Ginny like he's never seen her before, and then Ron is there and he hugs Hermione and whispers "I'm glad you and I are in this together," and she knows he doesn't really love Lavender, and that's alright and it's all just a mess, isn't it?

And it's decided that Hermione and Ron and George and Angelina and Hannah and Neville and Luna and Bill and Charlie will be the wedding party and everyone is toasting to happiness and a long, long life, and lots and lots of sex and then of course, _of course, _she catches Malfoy's eye.

"Didn't Tom make him leave after you proposed?" she hisses to Harry and Harry rolls his eyes at her and says "I told him to stay, Hermione. He's not that bad!"

"I've got a dragon on my torso that says he is, in fact, _that bad_."

Harry turns around and puts his hands on her shoulders and squints through his glasses at her. "Hermione, you're my best friend in the world and you're brilliant, but the simple fact of the matter is that you have to put it behind you at some point."

"You know what happened," Hermione fumes, and suddenly she's on the verge of tears and she hates herself, hates her scars, hates that stupid, fucking tattoo. "You know why I can't."

"If anyone can, it's you. I'm not forcing the reconciliation, alright? I know it takes time. But Hermione," and he's putting a drink in her hand and squeezing her shoulder and his smile is reassuring and intoxicated, all at the same time. "Just let yourself let go once in a while."

But the letting go is relentless and terrifying, and Hermione wonders if she trusts herself around Malfoy and if that's been the whole problem all alone, because she doesn't know if she wants to fight him or fuck him and that's – well, it's complicated.

And then it's 4 am and the Leaky is finally emptying out, and Susan Bones tells Hermione that she's got a room upstairs, if she wants somewhere to sleep. Hermione is giggling because she's the last one at the party and that's never happened in her whole life and it feels a little like letting go.

At 4:30 am, Ron finally tells Lavender that he doesn't love her and comes meandering down the stairs, and his cheek is brilliantly and furiously purple, but he looks happy and sure of himself. He sees Hermione after a moment, her feet propped up on the table and a book on her knees and he grins at her and goes to sit beside her.

"You want to come to bed?" he asks, innocently, a last-ditch effort, and Hermione just laughs and slings an arm around his neck.

"Where's Lavender?"

"Well, I broke it off and I think - she's definitely gone by now," he massages his cheek, ruefully, "That bloody witch. She hits much harder than I thought she would."

"You probably deserved it."

Ron stretches, puts his hands behind his head. "I reckon I did, yeah. But to be fair, I never actually said I loved her, she just sort of assumed I did and ran with it."

"Boys," Hermione sighs and shakes her head and Ron chuckles and reaches out a hand and musses her hair and there is a sudden, understood affection between them and Hermione thinks that some endings aren't so bad, after all.

"What exactly are you doing down here, anyways?" Ron asks, yawning, checking his watch and shaking his head because it's almost five in the morning.

"I'm not entirely sure, actually," Hermione shrugs, "I think I just like the quiet. And I can't sleep – and no, Ron, sleeping with you won't automatically resolve that particular issue."

"It was worth a shot."

"Not very well thought through, though."

"I'm about a bottle of mead too far gone to consider the repercussions," Ron's grinning despite himself, now, watching Hermione's hair glinting in the firelight. It's massive and he misses her – no – not her. He misses the feeling of someone else who knows him better, even, than Harry does. "We were awful together, weren't we?"

"Horrible," says Hermione, kissing his cheek and pushing him out of his chair, "Now for goodness sake, go to _bed_."

And Ron mumbles something about "just like my mother" and Hermione chucks a cocktail napkin at him and settles back into her book, and the warmth in her chest has nothing to do with fire.

Of course, like most things, even this predawn calm is too good to last.

"Weasel's gone to bed alone, has he?"

If she's being honest with herself, she half expects an interruption, but it doesn't make Malfoy's drawl any less jarring. And he's there, by the stairs, looking a little drunk and a little wrecked and too fucking perfect for the shabby, unkempt mess around him, his hair's in his eyes, and he's not wearing robes, just low slung trousers, and his shirt is unbuttoned, and Hermione's staring despite herself.

"You know Ron and I aren't together, Malfoy."

"I don't know anything of the sort," says Malfoy, who is now approaching, steadily, drawing closer and closer, and Hermione doesn't know whether to fight or to flee, because every time she looks at him, she can barely breathe.

"You're an incomprehensible arse."

"Why?"

"You _know_ why."

"I said you didn't have to do it!"

"But you didn't really mean that."

"You're right. I would never have let you forget it."

"See?"

"I'm joking, alright?"

Hermione stands up abruptly and meets his gaze, her book falling to the floor, fierce and fiery. "What's gotten into you, Malfoy?"

"Come again?" He's all innocent eyes and parted lips, but Hermione refuses to falter.

"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy. You've started turning up everywhere – at the ministry, at the Leaky – in the middle of my life, really, and I can't figure out why you're so set on just…disrupting everything with your- your snide glances and your idiotic comments and-."

"It's not _all_ about you, you know."

"Did I- "Hermione is so angry she can barely speak, but she does it anyway. "I did _not_ say it was all about me, I just said that you seem to be intent on sweeping in here and messing everything up, acting like you're some sort of Casanova-"

"Casa what?"

"Let me finish!" She stamps her foot and she knows she's being childish but she doesn't care, because he's still smirking at her like she's too thick to understand. "You're not a Casanova, you're an arrogant bastard as far as I'm concerned, and if you think for one second that Harry's approval means I'm one single _millimeter_ less suspicious of your motives, you're dead wrong."

Draco wasn't smirking anymore as he moved towards her, expression impassive. "And what are my motives, exactly, Granger?"

Hermione can't speak for a second – it's not that she can't, really, it's that she's the brightest witch of her age and she doesn't know what to say. She steps closer to him, fists clenching, defiance in every nerve of her shaking hands.

"I loathe you," she says, as if she doesn't want the words to dissolve into the air. She wants him to know it, right up close.

"Funny, Granger, I was just about to say the same thing about you," he says, coolly, and she's confused, expecting something different and suddenly, without realizing what she's doing, she's kissing him.

It happens like a car crash. One moment, you're cruising steadily along, and the next minute everything changes. It's a fiery, incomprehensible, painful, aching mess, and all Hermione can think is that never, not even in her wildest dreams, has she ever been kissed like that.

_Yeah, your cherry earrings are my favorite  
It looks so good, I had to save it._

"Just wear them!"

"They're ridiculous, Ginny."

"Imagine how Luna would feel if she heard you say that."

"Where did she say she got them again?"

"She made them. Some sort of weird new-age workshop where you sort of align your chakras and then all the energy goes into the earrings. See, I've got blueberries."

"Do they have to be fruits? Or can they be vegetables too?"

"Will you just put them on? I'm not asking for you to – I don't know, tattoo your ribcage, or something. "

"Oh HA HA."

Hermione is holding a pair of massive, jewel bright earrings, shaped like twin cherries, and she doesn't want to wear them, of course, because it's Ministry party and she's got a perfectly nice pair of diamond earrings that her parents bought her, sensible earrings for a sensible girl.

Is she a sensible girl anymore? The dragon begs to differ.

So, she puts the earrings on, and looks in the mirror and – she looks – brighter, somehow. She's all silvery grey robes and Sleakeazys and glittery earrings and when Ginny wolf whistles, she can't help but smile.

Draco isn't necessarily fond of Ministry parties, but of course, the possibility of seeing Granger is too positively scrumptious to pass up and so there he is, cleaning the bar out of single malt whiskey and Theo's hitting on the senior undersecretary to the ministry and Draco's finding it too, too funny, and then –

She's walking in and fuck, she looks like an angel, a perfect, mouthwatering angel with shimmering robes and delectable curls and Merlin, Morgana and Circe, he's far too drunk for this. She's turning her head and she's laughing, and the light catches them –cherries, suspended in gold, and for a second, Draco Malfoy can't fucking breathe.

"Cherries, Granger?"

He appears so quickly that Hermione thinks, blindly, that it must be magic. His hair is slicked back and his face is pinker than usual and his velvet robes are cut so fine that she can _just_ make out the outline of his chest and it makes her feel strangely lightheaded.

"What did I tell you about – about" she's whispering now, but it's more like a hiss, "Turning up everywhere, _Malfoy_."

"I couldn't quite remember if you didn't want me to turn up, or if you did, so I thought, better just turn up and then – " he doesn't quite finish, because she's dragging him behind a pillar and down a corridor, away from the crowds of people, and she looks gorgeously, extraordinarily pissed off.

"Is this because," she glances back at the fray, checking the entrance of the hallway and then whirls back to him, cheeks aflame, "of the – the _kiss_?" She says it so quietly Draco almost doesn't hear her.

He steps closer and she doesn't back up, but her cheeks darken, and Draco silently thanks the Gods that she is, at least, not immune to his charms.

"I seem to remember, Granger," he drawls, closer than ever, "that it was you who kissed me."

"I was – it was – I was intoxicated. And – it was late, and Ginny and Harry had just gotten engaged, for Merlin's sake, and you saw Ron leaving - and I wasn't – wasn't thinking clearly."

"What if," and Draco's got her cornered now, right up against another one of those awful, ornate marble pillars, and he's much too close, and Hermione thinks that if he just exhaled his dress robes would brush her hand, and she doesn't know what she'll do if it does, "What if you just wanted to kiss me?"

"That's – ridiculous."

"Why is it ridiculous?"

"Because," she breathes, "Because it's _you."_

And she ducks out from under him and hurries back down the corridor and Draco's leaning up against the pillar and all he can smell is fucking apples and cinnamon and then – he sees it. The ruby red glint of two twin cherries, caught in a crack between the column and the floor.

He grins and it's a feral sort of grin, and bends down, grabbing the earring and pocketing it before striding after Hermione, whistling something that sounds oddly like the Weird Sisters.

_Knew it from the moment, from the moment,  
From the moment that I saw you naked..._

She doesn't know why they all decide to stay at the Leaky after the Ministry party, but it's oddly nostalgic, watching Lee and George setting off fireworks in the hallway in her pajamas, sipping mulled wine out of a mug. Everyone's piling onto beds, drinking and laughing, and Harry and Ginny keep disappearing, and Ron shows up with Gabrielle Delacour, of all people, and she finally falls asleep on Luna's shoulder as the sun starts to rise over Diagon Alley.

Everyone wakes up at approximately the same time, because Tom the Barman is ringing some sort of infernal bell, and it's nastily loud and clanging, and Theo and Blaise are yelling at each other in what Ginny calls a "post sex rage," which causes tittering amongst the Patel sisters.

Hermione's rolling out of bed and blearily pulling on a jumper and when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she stifles a gasp.

There are massive circles under her eyes and her hair is sticking almost straight up from her scalp, which seems impossible, given gravity, so she decides that she has to at least _wet _the hair so it doesn't look so much like a bird's nest. An owl's nest, really, if we're comparing size.

She hears the shower turn on in the nearest bathroom, Luna's peculiar singing wafting into the room, which causes Hannah Abbott to moan and yank a pillow over her head. There are at least 4 girls on the bed, and a lump on the floor that she's positive is either Lee or George, or possibly Neville, but thinking about it too much is making her head pound.

Poking her head into the hallway, Hermione checks to see that it's deserted and hurries down, past two more rooms, to an empty bathroom. Sighing with relief, she strips off her jumper and pajamas and steps into the shower, wondering why on earth someone's taken down the shower curtain. Under the spray, she traces the dragon on her torso, the curving sides along her ribcage. She's threatened to remove it a hundred times, found the spell in a book, practiced the incantation enough that she can practically say it backwards, but every time she lifts her wand to perform it she can't get the words out.

And then -

It all happens very quickly.

First, she hears the footsteps, but the water sort of drowns them out and she just assumes that its Tom the Barman, and it's alright, because she locked the door. But then, horrifically, someone starts knocking at the door, softly at first, and then louder, and Hermione switches the water off and grabs for a towel, but there isn't one, because Neville's using it as a pillow two rooms away and then –

The door unlocks and swings open, and Draco Malfoy's halfway through pulling a cashmere sweater over his chest when he sees her.

She's dripping water onto the tiles, and her hair is slicked back and soaking and she's naked as the day she was born and the look on his face is indescribable and for a blissful, electrifying moment, Hermione forgets where she is.

Draco Malfoy wasn't expecting to wake up at the Leaky, but there he was, and Merlin, he needed to piss. Theo and Pansy would not stop fucking talking about Blaise and all he wants is some goddamn peace and quiet.

So, he grabs his sweater and his trousers, and he sets out in search of a toilet and of course, of course the first one he finds is locked. The water's running, but he assumes it's just Blaise, so he unlocks the door and then –

She's just standing there, dripping wet, holding a jumper in one hand, and every inch of her is blissfully, completely bare. Her skin is the color of milky tea, and every inch of her is soft curves, and she's all pastels and dark eyes and long, shapely legs, and that fucking dragon, climbing her ribcage and it's better than every single wet dream he's ever had and he knows he should leave and shut the door but there's something in her eyes, something that makes him stop.

"MALFOY," she all but screams, and it jolts him awake, "Get the hell OUT!"

And she's grabbing her clothes and her wand and he's backing up and he doesn't have a single clever comment, not one, because he knows that he'll see her standing there until the day he's lowered into the ground.

"Malfoy did WHAT?"

"Blimey, Hermione, you didn't even hex him?"

"Damn it, I'm going to kill him. No sublety at all – "

"Wait," Hermione is relaying her story to Harry, Ron and Ginny, but it's Harry's comment that makes her stop and narrow her eyes, "What do you mean, 'no sublety at all'."

Harry looks disturbingly guilty and Hermione's stomach drops and she's got her wand out, and Harry's backing into a wall, looking amused and a little terrified.

"Hermione, I swear I didn't say anything, alright? He asks about you sometimes, I thought it was just curiosity at first, or that he was being polite, but then I started to get a bit suspicious and I had that good bottle of bourbon and he just wouldn't stop talking about how good looking and smart and – well, swotty was the word he used – you are and I told him to, you know, talk to you."

"You told him to TALK TO ME?" Hermione is shrieking, her wand tip singing a hole through Harry's shirt, and Ron and Ginny are staring at each other in horrified fascination, "Is that why he's been POPPING UP all over the place and MAKING MY LIFE HELL?"

"I really think that's a bit much, Hermione," says Ginny, and Hermione whirls around and points an accusatory finger at her.

"You!" she yells, "Did you know about this too? Have you been conspiring-"

"Don't yell at my sister, Mione, they were just trying to-"

"Just trying to WHAT, Ronald?"

Ron looks terrified but resolute as he starts to speak. "Ever since the war, Hermione, everyone else is – well, dealing with their respective shit and trying to move on and let go, and you're just – you just ignore it and you let it simmer and it hurts you, I know it does, but you just hold onto it tighter,"

Hermione stares at him, wand lowered, chest heaving, eyes bright and head spinning.

"And it's not just Malfoy," his voice is stronger now, and he steps forward, inching closer to Hermione, "It's Fred, and Lupin and Tonks and – and everyone. You're so angry and guilty and you won't let yourself just – move on."

"I'm not – I won't," her voice cracks, looking at him, desperate and frantic, "Aren't you angry?"

"Yeah," he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Harry, "Sometimes. And having that Slytherin lot around doesn't help. But – "

"They're just people," says Harry, "Life's hard enough as it is. We all made mistakes, but we were _kids,_ Hermione. You know as well as I do that they're not responsible for their parent's indoctrination. Or for Voldemort's, either."

"So, you'd just forgive him," Hermione's crying now, but she's angry, not sad, "For years of arrogant, baseless, pigheaded cruelty, because he suddenly thinks the girl he called mudblood for seven fucking years is GOOD LOOKING?"

"I'm not asking you to marry the man, I'm just asking you to forgive yourself. And to just – have a little faith in redemption."

Hermione is suddenly exhausted, her anger fading into familiar sadness, a wave of tremendous loss making her limbs ache.

"The bathroom thing wasn't ideal, though," says Harry, mending his t shirt.

"Yeah, I'm going to kill him for that one," Ron quips, throwing an arm around Hermione, "Will you lighten up, Hermione? Please?"

Hermione glares at him, but doesn't say anything, and then Ginny suggests breakfast, and Hermione grudgingly nods her head, and they all grab their cloaks and finally, finally, leave the Leaky.

_I've been hopin', prayin' we last forever  
'Cause there's nothing better than you and I -_

Hermione's not looking for Draco Malfoy, not really. They're at Harry's house, in Godric's Hollow, and it's a work party, sort of, but like most weekends, everyone is sort of tipsy and there's music everywhere and a million fireflies and it would be a perfect evening, really, but –

It's sort of weighing on her, which she doesn't realize until she actually fakes a laugh at one of Fred's jokes, and she knows that she's feeling guilty, and her dragon is itching and even if she's yelling at him, she just wants to know that he's there.

Ginny comes sidling up a minute later, Luna at her elbow and Hannah trailing just behind, with a very determined look on her face.

"Hermione," she says, and Hermione knows she means business, "What the hell is wrong with you? You look like you just ate a puking pastille. Spill."

"Nothing's wrong!"

"Nargles," observes Luna, drawing a circle in the air around Hermione's head, "Lots of them. You're either….incandescently happy, or you're upset about something."

"I think we can see that she's not incandescently happy, Luna," Ginny yanks Hermione towards her and whispers, loudly, "Is it because of Draco?"

"It is NOT because of Draco, thank you very much."

"You're a terrible liar, Hermione," says Hannah, eyebrows raised. Hermione glares at each of them in turn , feeling very ganged up on and very, very sulky.

"It's just –" she glances at Ginny and rolls her eyes, "He's so incredibly annoying, right?"

"Right," the girls chorus.

"And by all accounts I should never want to see him again, after what happened in the bathroom, but I just can't stop thinking about him and his stupid face and his stupid jokes and then there's the whole thing with the kiss – "

"THE WHAT?" shrieks Ginny, who looks completely and utterly flabbergasted, "He kissed you? When the hell did that happen?"

"Actually," and Hermione's not looking at any of them now, scuffing the floor with the toe of her sneaker, "I sort of – kissed him. After the engagement party."

"Holy shit," Ginny breathes, and Hannah and Luna are giggling madly, and Hermione's trying to look anywhere but at the three of them, "Harry's going to be so pissed off."

"What d'you mean?"

Ginny grins, evilly. "He wanted you to befriend him, maybe exercise some civility, not fall madly in love. And now look what you've gone and done."

"Ginny, I feel quite a few different things for Draco Malfoy, but I can personally guarantee that not a single one of them qualifies as love."

"Yet."

"Ever!"

"But you do want to shag him," Ginny adds.

"I do NOT!"

"Look," Hannah hands her a freshly made drink and gestures to the sitting room, "He's been skulking over there for about fifteen minutes. See if you can't put a smile on that pretty little Slytherin face of his."

And that's when she sees him, and he's wearing muggle clothes and talking to Neville, of all people, and Neville looks a little shocked but strangely animated and Hermione almost loses her entire train of thought, but then Ginny yells "Oy, Neville, your girlfriend needs you!"

And Malfoy's looking right at her.

So Hermione turns around and slips out the garden door and she's thinking, quite seriously, about running away, and Malfoy's following her out the door and the night is warm and soft and velvet smooth and then –

"Granger."

Hermione stops. Slowly, slowly, she turns around, and there he is, in his stupid jeans and his stupid cashmere sweater, his stupid hands in his pockets and his stupid hair everywhere. And he's looking at her like she's magic and she's not sure what that means, exactly.

"You running away?"

"I needed some air," she crosses her arms and considers escape routes. Now that they're here, it feels claustrophobic, like the hedgerows of Harry's back garden are trapping her in Malfoy's gaze.

"How are you?" he's asking like he cares and it makes her so fucking angry she can barely see straight.

"I'm _fine."_ She spits out.

"Is this about the bathroom thing?"

"Did anybody ever tell you not to open locked doors, especially if someone's-"

"Naked?"

"I was showering, you pervert."

"I thought it was Blaise, if it makes you feel better."

"It does NOT make me feel better," Hermione marches off, unsure of where's she's going, wondering if the cup in her hand will magically refill with Hannah's concoction, but knows it can't because of Gamp's Law of-

"I'm not done talking to you, Granger," Draco's in front of her, suddenly, leaning up against of those massive old oak trees, and Hermione honestly wonders if he just apparated, or if she's just a little drunker than she thought she was.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she's got her hands on her hips, now, "Do you really think it's that amusing to get a rise out of me?"

"Turns out it's not actually that difficult, Granger," he's drawling, and Hermione hates how languid, how sensual, his voice gets. It prickles her spine and gets under her skin and she has the sudden urge to shake herself.

"Listen to me," she says, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "I don't know where you get off, telling Harry that you think I'm good looking and _swotty, _and turning up all over London – "

"I didn't say good looking," Draco interrupts, coolly, "I said _passably attractive_. Two very different things. But you are, actually, quite swotty."

"That is NOT the point, Malfoy and you know it."

"What is the point, Granger?"

Hermione steels herself, takes a deep breath, and prays to any gods that will listen. "The point is, you spent seven years being the biggest jackass that you could possibly be, and then we get to the other side of Hogwarts and the war and you wake up one morning and decide that you're going to –" and she's barely one minute away from crying, but she won't cry in front of him, she _won't, _so she says it with as much venom as she can possibly muster. "Make fun of me."

Draco's face registers surprise before anything else, and then it fades into something vaguely resembling resentment.

"Is that really what you think I'm doing?"

"Y-yes," falters Hermione, suddenly unsure, unsure about everything, even the very sturdy ground beneath her. How can she be, when he's looking at her like that? "Aren't you?"

"No, Granger, I'm not making fun of you, although it is rather baffling that I'm pursuing a witch who's opinion of herself is so low that she truly believes that the only reason a wizard would pay any attention to her is if he's _making fun of her."_

Hermione is staring at him, because he just said the word "pursuing" and even though she knows it means to 'seek to attain or accomplish a goal over a long period', she can't think what it possibly means in regard to her.

"B-but" she manages to stammer out, and Draco steps closer, and closer, until she could lift a finger and touch his sleeve, and it's all she can do to stay upright, because he's just looking at her with those eyes, like sharpened steel.

"I've got a tattoo on my shoulder that says I'm not fucking around, Granger."

"No," she says, "No," she says it louder, backing up, "I'm not – I'm not just going to let it go, not like that. It's too easy, it's too – " and she's pleading now, even though she doesn't want to plead, because she can't beg anyone to care and she can't make herself not care. "How am I supposed to reconcile this," she gestures at him, "With everything? How do I- "

If she's two steps back, he's two steps forward, and suddenly he's too close again and he's breathing hard and it's the first time she's seen him really, really lose it.

"You don't get it, do you, Granger? I rode a broom for six fucking years, and Potter starts riding for the first time, and in two days he's better than me. And I was an arrogant, jealous arse, but he was this little, spectacled git who everyone worshipped – and I just thought – and then you, the pretentious muggle born who was so much smarter than me – than everyone - and I couldn't fucking believe that either – and it was just – it doesn't excuse what I did, but it was never straightforward, not for me. It wasn't right and wrong; it was family and loyalty and then – it was everything else."

"And you're saying that justifies – what – what you did? What you are?"

"I'm not justifying it, Granger. I'm explaining it."

"And what about me?"

"What do you mean, what about you?"

"How do I fit into – your – your redemption arc?"

Draco smirks down at her. "You didn't. You still don't. But the fact of the matter is, that doesn't stop you from being fucking beautiful, and smart and _infuriating_, fuck, you are _so_ infuriating, and it doesn't stop me from wanting to kiss you, and I don't care if I spend a hundred years alone, drinking myself to death in the shrieking shack, I will never-" and he's so close now that she can feel his breath on her skin and it makes her feel _electric_, "Stop wanting to kiss you."

Hermione nods and swallows and suddenly she knows that life, by design, is unfair and sometimes you're born into a family of kindhearted muggle dentists and sometimes you're born into a family of prejudiced, pureblooded Death Eaters and - it's not all your fault, after all.

It isn't what someone is born, it is what they grow to be. Damn it all to hell, she thinks, Dumbledore was right.

Draco Malfoy is still self-serving and conceited, but he's also funny and ridiculously intelligent and sometimes he looks at her like she is the only existing person in the world, and it makes her feel a storm of something she's only just beginning to understand.

"And for what I did to you," he says it quietly, sincere for what seems like the very first time, "I know it'll never be remotely enough, but – I am sorry."

She does not expect him to reach toward her.

"Can I see your arm?" he says it slowly, and when she pulls back her sleeve, his hands are soft and reverent and tracing the lines etched into her skin with a concentration that is deep and dark and inscrutable.

"You're brave," he whispers.

Without meaning to she says it, lets it tumble off her tongue in curiosity and question. "Can I see yours?"

And when he rolls back his sleeve, and she sees the grey, twisted scar, marring that perfect, pale skin, she reaches out to touches it and he flinches, and she looks up at him.

"So are you."

And for that moment, at least, Hermione realized they are two people, with scars on their arms to remind of where they had been, to remind them that there is no insurance for the person you used to be, and no assurance of the person you'll become.

And then he kisses her, really kisses her, like every urgent, fleeting thing, like she will disappear the next second.

"I shouldn't forgive you," she breathes, strangled and wanting.

"I know, Granger," he says, lips brushing her neck, "I know."


	2. Chapter 2

**I've received a couple messages about a sequel to Tattoos Together, and because I do feel it was a bit of a cliffhanger - here's the second half! It's formatted a bit differently, but picks up a few weeks after the end of the last chapter. Hope you like! xx **

_"Shoulda believed in us_  
_While we existed_  
_'Cause now the whole thing's fucked_  
_And just a figment of my imagination__."_

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

She turns earnest eyes to Draco Malfoy, and he knows that it is illogical and idiotic and would, frankly, ruin his life, and yet –

"Course not, Granger."

"Good." If Hermione Granger doubts his sincerity, she doesn't show it, and he watches the dragon dancing over her ribcage as she pulls his favorite grey blanket around her and pads out of bed.

She dresses without looking at him, pulling the plain pink underwear up over the curve of her hips, shimmying into the jeans and finally, yanking on that god-awful jumper, shaking out her curls until they cascade over the knobby knit.

"So," she turns to face him, and Draco feels the awkwardness as if it is tangible, the distance already stretching between them. "I suppose I'll – see you around, then?"

Draco watches her for a second, a smirk playing on his lips at her odd formality, the rigidity of her shoulders.

Not like last night, he thinks, and he feels himself harden slightly at the thought.

He swings his legs over the bed, pulls on his underwear, and gestures to the door. "Come on," he says, "I'll see you out."

"Er, okay," she says, and follows him through the hall, into his spare, sunny sitting room, a spill of watery light illuminating the tousled couch and the remnants of a bottle of fire whiskey.

Draco thinks of all the times he has feigned sleep, letting witches tip toe out of his room with a few longing glances, and wonders what it is about this damned girl that has him up at an ungodly hour, escorting her to his front door as if she couldn't figure it out herself.

Oh, right. He's in over his fucking head, of course. What a surprise.

"Well," says Hermione, glancing up at him, searching slightly, "See you later, Malfoy."

"Goodbye, Granger."

And she is gone.

After the unfortunate incident in Harry's back garden, and perhaps all the other incidents, something has been forged between them.

And that's how it happens, of course. Draco becomes Hermione's respite from the constant pressure that is just being brilliant, every day. And Hermione is the thing, the one thing, that makes Draco feel something, and when he slips inside her for the very first time it is surprising how well he fits there.

Or perhaps not so surprising at all.

The sex and the stolen glances; it's just for them. Not for anyone else. There's no compulsion to speak it into existence, not yet, at least.

He sees her in the throes of it all, impossibly wet and moaning and it is his wildest dream, of course, until she walks out the door in the mornings, not looking back until she apparates off his stoop.

In the end he has no idea it will be the last time she leaves like that.

Draco doesn't exactly know why he stops responding to her owls. It is something in Pansy's eye when she asks about his rumored betrothal to Astoria Greengrass, his mother's constant badgering about his personal life and – that guilt. That deeply felt guilt that is wrapped up in jealousy, the edges of which dig into his insides every time he opens a Daily Prophet or catches sight of Hermione's wild hair in the corridors of the Ministry.

So, he stops accepting Harry's invites to the Leaky, spends his weekends in Wiltshire entertaining his old Slytherin cronies, and tries desperately to forget about Hermione Granger.

Life will be simpler that way.

Hermione tries not to think about the owls that have gone unanswered in the week since she woke up in Draco Malfoy's bed. It is admittedly demoralizing that even a former Death Eater, a cruel and arrogant prick who terrorized her for the better part of seven years won't respond to her letters, short and to the point though they are.

She only sends three before she stops altogether, steeling herself against the strange feeling of emptiness that follows. It is more difficult than before to feel as if Hermione has the upper hand, especially when her best friends have their own relationships, consumed by work and family and spontaneous date nights.

Why did it have to be him? This bothers her more than anything else. There are hundreds – hundreds of thousands of eligible bachelors in England – in Europe, even, and Draco Malfoy is the one who makes her _feel_ something.

And so, the days pass, and a week turns into a month, and eventually the routine that she fell into by accident becomes a less visceral punch to the gut. No less visceral, of course, are the glimpses of white blonde hair and high collared black robes that always seem to disappear around corners whenever she notices them.

On one particularly sunny and warm Friday afternoon, Hermione pops by Harry's office, ducking behind a particularly large memo to avoid being stopped by any young Aurors. Despite her best efforts, she was still quite famous, unfortunately, and any number of very stern talking tos had not stopped people from asking for autographs at inopportune moments.

"Hi," she says, slightly breathless after dodging Harry's tottering secretary, "Did you want to pop down and watch the end of Ginny's practice?"

Harry's office is cozy, and wood paneled, with large windows displaying a brilliantly blue sky, though they are some meters below ground.

"You're leaving early?" Harry feigns surprise, waving his wand at a stack of reports, "Wonders never cease."

"I'm just more efficient than you are," she replies, smugly, already nearly out the door, "Don't be a spoil sport. I'll get Ron."

"Give me a minute and I'll meet you lot out front."

A few minutes later, the three of them apparate into the car park of the Holyhead Harpies training facility just outside London. It is large and beautiful, deep green stands rising on every side, and the three brassy hoops extending even higher, glinting in the cloudless sky.

This has become something of a tradition for them on Fridays, sitting in the stands when the weather is nice and watching Ginny, a little auburn blur, racing around the pitch.

"So, how's the DRCMC these days?" Ron says, scooting closer to Hermione and keeping his eye trained on a player that Hermione knew was both very pretty and very out of his league, "Bixby keeping you all in line?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione sighs, "It's starting to look like there's only so much I can do there to really help creatures, you know? I'm starting to think I might need to be more on the policy side."

"There's always a place for you in the Auror division, you know that."

"I'd just want it to be a bit more meaningful than that. Especially since nobody takes creature justice seriously, even now – after the war and everything."

"I wouldn't say that," says Ron, thoughtfully, "It's just different, you know? House elf liberation just became law. You have to let people get used to it."

Hermione snorts at this. "Get used to human decency towards their servants? Not to mention maintaining humane living quarters? Paying them minimum wage?"

"You know what I mean," says Ron, rolling his eyes, "You didn't grow up in the wizarding world, alright? There's a lot of stuff that we do and believe that doesn't make any sense."

"That doesn't mean it's not completely backwards, Ronald."

"Yeah, well-"

"Nice to see you two getting along," says Harry, tearing his attention away from the pitch to give them both a "reign it in" sort of look.

Hermione groans and lapses into silence, watching the sky deepen, tiny green shapes zooming across it like birds. "So how's Gabrielle, Ron? I haven't seen her since Harry's engagement."

"She eez good," says Harry, flashing Ron a grin, "He eez – 'ow do you say – een love?"

"Sod off," grumbles Ron, ears reddening, "We're getting drinks later, alright? And not that it matters, but her English is loads better than Fleur's."

"Ooh la la," says Hermione, trying not to laugh, "A regular gentleman, Harry, can you believe it?"

Harry and Hermione lapse into giggles at the mutinous expression on Ron's face, all three watching Ginny's teammate score a particularly inventive goal to resounding cheers from the rest of the players.

After a few more shots and a rousing (by the sound of it) pep talk by Captain Jessie Caldwell, the witches zoom down to the pitch, Ginny waving madly at them before disappearing into the locker room. She emerges 20 minutes later, damp hair curling over a Harpies windbreaker, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"Hello!" she waits for them to file down from the stands, kissing Harry and extending an arm for Hermione to thread hers through. "How was work today?"

"Will you stop gloating?" grumbles Ron, falling into stride beside them, "You know it was shit compared to your day."

"Ah, can't say that, exactly," says Ginny, "Conditioning this morning was bollocks. Nearly vomited onto the pitch."

Ron rolls his eyes at this. "Did Mum say anything to you about dinner tomorrow?"

"No, Ronniekins, you'll have to floo her yourself. Are you bringing Gabrielle – actually, wait, speaking of the Delacours, here's a bit of interesting information for both of you," says Ginny, rather slyly.

"What?" The three of them turn to look at her.

"We think Fleur's knocked up."

"Are you serious?" Harry says as Hermione gasps and Ron exclaims "Bloody hell, you're joking!"

"How do you know?"

"I guess she's not been drinking wine at dinner anymore, and acting a bit shifty around everyone – and then Mum caught her being sick all over the toilet last night - and you know Mum, she just wouldn't let up about it. In the end Fleur told her it was "zis Eeenglish food", but she's been eating it for years now."

"Bill hasn't said anything?"

"The man's a curse breaker, Hermione. He's impossible to wheedle information out of, and trust me, Fred has tried."

"That's so exciting," sighs Hermione, dreamily, "I really can't believe it."

"I can't believe Mum didn't tell me," says Ron, grumpily.

"Because you can't keep your big mouth shut, probably."

Ron directs a very rude hand gesture towards Ginny at this, and Ginny dissolves into giggles and all four of them head toward the apparition point at the edge of the car park, laughter and conversation floating off into the twilight.

Harry goes back to the office, of course, and Ron goes to meet Gabrielle Delacour, and Ginny convinces Hermione to drop by her flat and have a glass of wine with "the girls".

And so, Hermione finds herself curled up on Ginny's tiny, ratty sofa, watching her roommates pass bottles of cheap wine back and forth, the Weird Sisters playing over the wireless. It makes her feel oddly lonely, watching them calling out to each other, trading bits of makeup and clothing, anticipation crackling in the air like electricity.

It reminds her of Lavender and Parvati, giggling over boys and sneaking sips of firewhiskey in the dormitory before quidditch parties or trips to Hogsmeade. She had never wanted to be part of it, not really, but she always feels as if she has missed some integral part of being a girl.

"Hermione –" Ginny pops her head out, wrapped in a towel, her cheeks rosy. "You want to come to the pub with us? We're meeting some foreign quidditch envoys down at the Leaky."

"I'm not sure, Gin, I'm a bit –"

"Harry will be there later! And I've heard Malfoy's back in Wiltshire for a bit, so there's no chance you'll accidentally snog him, or anything."

Hermione's heart drops a little in her chest. She hasn't heard from him since the last time she left his flat, and even just a mention of his name makes her feel like someone has yanked a rug out from under her.

It was not fair to think – they weren't anything, not really. Malfoy had never even taken her out on a date. It isn't as if he's interested her in being anything other than what she has let herself become – a secret. An illicit affair if you will.

"Oh – oh, alright, then," she concedes, and Ginny cheers and pours her a drink, an awful, potent mix of pumpkin juice and what Hermione guesses is vodka.

By the time they arrive to the Leaky, Hermione is drunk. She is not dancing around it, warm and tipsy, she is drunk, and she is babbling, and she feels vaguely stupid and vaguely as if she should go home, but she stays because Ginny tells her to.

The professional quidditch world is something of a strange animal to Hermione, mainly because she has never really cared much for the sport, and therefore isn't very excited by its participants. They are mostly very badly behaved wizards and loud, fit witches, all of whom can drink like fishes and still somehow make it to practice in the morning.

The bar is full of the Harpies and their coaches, along with a large contingent of older, foreign wizards, all of whom are drinking cocktails that appear to be smoking slightly.

There is a group of young, impressionable looking witches all squashed into a booth to the left of them, speaking to an older, stocky man with a weak chin, a man that Ginny says is their manager.

"Bit of an idiot," she says, "But those girls are recruits. He's the best in the business, even though he does look like an uglier Ludo Bagman."

The girls pile into another booth, and Ginny's roommate Rory orders a round of shots and butterbeers, though Hermione protests weakly that she has to work in the morning. It is halfway through this butterbeer, after she throws back the shot and nearly gags, that she notices something.

A slouching figure, leaning up against the bar, his hooked nose silhouetted against the candles from the back of the bar.

"Ginny," Hermione says slowly, her stomach dropping, "This envoy – it doesn't include Viktor Krum, does it?"

"Oh, yeah it does, actually," says Ginny, throwing a nonchalant arm over the back of the booth, "He's working for the International Quidditch Federation. Did I not mention that? I could have sworn I-"

She catches sight of the look on Hermione's face and stops abruptly. "Hermione-" she says, slowly, "I-have you talked to him at all?"

"Not since the wedding," she says, quietly, trying not to stare at him, "He owled me after the war was over, but – I was still trying to make things work with Ron and it just – I never responded."

"I'm sorry, but – " Rory leans over, conspiratorial, "Am I hearing you correctly? You dated Viktor Krum?"

"Dated is a bit of a strong word-"

"Oh, please, Hermione, he was obsessed with you," she turns to Rory, who quirks an eyebrow at Hermione, "She went with him to the Yule Ball and then he rescued her from the Black Lake during the Tri-Wizard tournament."

"Merlin," sighs Rory, "And I can't even get a bloke to owl me back."

"You should go talk to him," Ginny says, and Hermione glances back to the bar, watches him sip his drink and wonders what she would say to him.

It was intimidating and confusing back then, the most famous quidditch player in the world, a boy who could barely string together a coherent sentence and a girl whose life was on the brink of being irrevocably changed by her blood and her best friend. They are probably equally well known, now, which makes it even more odd.

Maybe it was timing. A twitch in the universe. Maybe she will miss Malfoy less if she gets up and orders a drink and asks him about his life.

And so, Hermione Granger gets up, straightens her jumper, combs one hand through her hair and walks over to Viktor Krum, and when he sees her, the light in his eyes makes her heart skip.

**Malfoy Manor, One Week Later**

"What did you just say?"

"You took up with Granger. Oh, don't give me that look, Draco, we all knew it."

Draco doesn't speak, although his chest is screaming, his fingers shaking as he exhales smoke, tries to steady himself.

"it was a bit surprising, but-" Pansy trails off, watching Draco with a hint of glee in her eyes, "She's not bad looking. And people will think you're reformed, won't they? Though I can't say much for your taste. Lucius won't like a muggleborn - especially _that_ muggleborn."

"That's not why he did it," says Theo, and Draco hears the glee in his voice, "He fancies her, doesn't he?"

"No," and Draco's voice is hoarse. "It was a mistake. That's all."

"Told you," says Pansy, offering Draco the bottle of whiskey, "You want another?"

"No," says Draco, and he stands, abruptly, trying to reconcile the feeling in his insides, like he's just dropped a hundred feet on his broom, his stomach swooping. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight," he nods at Theo and Blaise and Pansy pulls him in for a hug, and he feels as if he might be sick.

If they had known all along – if they didn't care – what was it all for, in the end?

**The Ministry of Magic, One Week Later**

Astoria Greengrass looks like Aphrodite, in cream colored robes and gold jewelry, her dark hair sleek and shining, and the worst part of it all is that it's Draco Malfoy's arm she's clutching with her slim, manicured hand.

Hermione can't deny that it feels like a slap in the face. She's wearing her second best set of dress robes, the navy blue ones that are reminiscent of her Yule Ball robes, and her hair is curly and pushed to the side, and she hadn't felt homely and ugly before she'd arrived, but-

Draco catches her eye and she turns away abruptly, making a beeline for a drink tray, suspended in middair and covered in frosty copper mugs.

"Did you see him?" says Ginny, appearing beside her with Hannah Abbott, both clutching champagne flutes and looking conspiratorial.

"See who?" says Hermione, very nonchalantly, taking a large, gingery sip of her drink.

"Oh, please, don't pretend you didn't see that pretentious-"

"She looks ridiculous, I mean really, who would wear white robes to a Ministry fundraiser, it's so tacky-"

Hermione tries not to engage, watching the pair circling the dance floor, starkly black and white against an accompanying swirl of color. "It's fine," she is lying, and she knows it. "Honestly, I don't give a rat's arse what he does or who he does it with."

"Well that doesn't mean she's not a trampy little –"

"Ginny!" admonishes Hermione, and Ginny lapses into silence, Hannah giggling into her champagne.

It's not that she doesn't expect him to date other people – after all, she did agree to a date with Viktor Krum, but there is something particularly cruel about the way he parades Astoria around, as if she is a prize that he's won.

A triumph worthy of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione feels pathetic for a moment, watching the two of them whispering to each other, smugly surveying the crowd. Hermione imagines for a second that it is her in his arms, waltzing to a song that is both beautiful and familiar, played by instruments without musicians.

Anger rising in her chest, she downs the cold, gingery drink and rounds on Ginny, who is still glaring at Astoria. "D'you know where Ron is?"

Moments later, she is dragging an irate Ron out to the dance floor, Gabrielle Delacour shooting her angry looks from the refreshments table.

"Can you explain to me," says Ron, teeth gritted, stumbling over the hem of his robe, "Why you're insisting on torturing me at my own sodding fundraiser?"

"I fancied a dance, alright?" Hermione says, holding out her arms and throwing her hair over one shoulder, "Oh, come on," she notices the expression on his face, "It's not that bad, is it?"

"Gabrielle's going to have my head on a silver platter."

"Keeps you on your toes, doesn't it?"

"You're not trying to –" Ron lowers his mouth towards her ear and Hermione cringes at the smell of firewhiskey, "Seduce me, are you?"

"Oh, please," Hermione huffs, and they spin across the floor, a flash bulb capturing the pair of them as they rotate past a contingent of Daily Prophet reporters, "I thought we were past that, Ronald."

"Well, you never know," says Ron, watching the reporters over her shoulder, "We're going to be front page news tomorrow, Mione."

"Then we better give them something to talk about."

And Ron grins at her and they're off across the floor, and Hermione wonders where Ron learned to dance, and Ron thinks that Hermione still smells the same, after all this time, and how it just reminds him of her curls splayed across his Chudley Canons pillowcase.

Draco Malfoy is watching from the shadows, Astoria deep in conversation with a Professor Sinistra, watching the pair flying across the dance floor, faces glowing in the firelight. The jealousy he thought he has buried is flaring again and the strength of it surprises him. He hates the way they look at each other, years of friendship apparent in laughter and knowing smiles.

So he does the only thing that he can think to do, which is to pull Astoria away from Professor Sinistra and on to the dance floor, and as soon as Hermione catches sight of the pair of them, he lowers his head to hers and kisses her.

There is a scuffle to his left, a yelp, and Malfoy turns just in time to see a set of navy robes disappearing into the crowd, Ron Weasley trailing after her.

Was it cruel? Perhaps, but Malfoy can't account for his anger, that flare of white-hot rage. He will do anything for Hermione Granger, and that is the most dangerous thought of all.

**Dean Thomas's Apartment, Three Days Later**

"So, you and Krum?"

Hermione finds herself having trouble keeping her hands steady. She avoids his gaze, staring down into her red plastic cup as if she is searching for something.

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Malfoy."

"You went to the Yule Ball with him, didn't you?"

Hermione pauses, looks up at Malfoy. He is staring at her, inscrutable, those grey eyes trained on her face. She isn't even sure why he's here – she's not sure why she's there either, at Dean Thomas's rambling brick town house, celebrating the end of another week with cheap booze and loud Muggle music.

Krum was there too, and as they walk through the door, she can't see anything but Draco Malfoy's face, stony and white against the dark paneled walls. It doesn't feel as triumphant as she thought it would.

"Yes," she says, softly, "I did."

He nods, taking a measured sip of his drink. "I suppose I should have seen it coming."

"Seen what coming?"

"That you'd move on eventually."

"So, this is my fault now?" Hermione meets his eyes for the first time, indignant, her eyes flashing.

"Former professional quidditch players always were a bit more suitable than former Death Eaters. I can't really blame you."

Hermione doesn't respond to this. He is baiting her, and she won't respond, won't show her hand. Not to him. Not now, taunting her with his expensive sweater and overlong hair, drink suspended in long, pale fingers. His cheeks are faintly pink, his eyes dark and steely grey.

Why can't she subdue the urge to climb on top of him, to kiss the arrogance out of that mouth, to fuck him senseless and to lie in that perfect afterglow, convinced for a moment that she is _his_.

"Theo and Blaise knew, you know. Pansy too."

Her head shoots up. She is frowning now. "What do you mean?"

"They didn't give a shit about us, in the end," he says, finishing his drink and setting the glass down, his hands in his pockets.

"Are you – are you blaming this on me? I didn't hear from you for a month, Draco, an entire fucking month. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Nothing," Draco says, evenly, "I should have said something."

"And you took – you took Astoria to the Ministry fundraiser," she looks as if she did not mean to say this, "I didn't have any expectations about you, Draco, but you make me feel foolish, for – assuming – I knew what _this_ was, but that doesn't mean you have to throw it in my face."

"I figured you wouldn't want people knowing," drawls Draco, and he is taken aback by the way her eyes are flashing, hair crackling with static in the half-lit room, "About us. Figured it was easier. I should have told you. She doesn't mean anything to me, Hermione, she never did."

"Well 'should have' isn't good enough," Hermione says, finitely, standing up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and Draco hears the hurt in her voice, and for a second he finds breathing just a little bit harder, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

And without looking back, she moves away from him, through the door and down the hall. And he catches her at the end, before she turns the corner, glancing back over her shoulder. The intensity of his gaze makes her shiver, and she feels the way her stomach turns over with a sense of foreboding.

"Vhere vere you?" Viktor looks up at Hermione as she enters the kitchen, "I vas looking for you!"

"I was just – " she gestures behind her, "Talking to someone."

"Who vas it?"

Hermione shakes her head. "It was – someone who works with Harry. Nothing important."

Viktor looks dissatisfied at this, but does not say anything, and Hermione offers him a small smile. "I missed you," she says, and his face softens as he reaches his hand to the small of her back.

He smells spicy and comforting, and she lets herself lean into him, lets herself forget, for a second, those impossible, steely eyes burning into her back as she walked away.

**Diagon Alley, Two Days Later**

Hermione meets Ginny in Diagon Alley on the prettiest day of the summer so far, gloriously blue and warm, and they are enjoying the sunshine and their ice creams so much that she barely notices the stares and the murmurs as they wind their way through the crowds.

"Florian Fortescue's daughter is a damned genius," Ginny muses, looking forlornly down at her Chocolate Frog & Crystallized Pineapple Melee. "I'd order this in pints if I could, honestly."

"Mmmm," says Hermione, through a mouthful of Peppermint Quill, "It's so good I don't want it to end."

"Question," says Ginny, after scraping the bottom of her cup and tossing it into a bin, "I've been meaning to ask you for awhile, actually, but it always seems like there's someone else around."

"Hmm?" Hermione is savoring the last drops of peppermint, the sunshine on her face, as close to contentment as she can remember being in weeks.

"Harry and I have started thinking about our wedding party and everything, and I guess – what I'm trying to say is will you be my maid of honor?"

"Ginny!" Hermione exclaims, dropping her cone in excitement and rounding on Ginny, who is grinning as Hermione crushes her in a bear hug, pulling away the next second with her hands over her face, "Are you sure? I mean – you don't have to– "

"Don't be stupid," Ginny laughs, grabbing Hermione's hand, "Of course I'm sure. Who else would it be? And if you weren't my maid of honor, you'd surely be a groomsman for Harry and he'd make you wear a bow tie."

"I think I'd look quite handsome in a bow tie, actually."

"Surely you would, but wouldn't you rather wear a dress? Viktor rather liked the one you wore to Bill's wedding, if I recall correctly."

Hermione can't remember making a face, but Ginny catches it somehow, her expression sharpening ever so slightly. "How are things going with Viktor, by the way? I never asked you after the party at Dean's place."

"They're good!" and Hermione's voice is a little too bright. Things _are_ good with Viktor – romantic and lovely and everything that she thought she always wanted, but every time she thinks about the conversation with Draco, she gets a pit in her stomach that is hard to explain away.

"I did think you two made rather a nice couple," says Ginny, "But – "

"But what?"

Ginny shrugs, examining a caramel feathered tawny in the window of the pet shop.

"I don't know," she says, looping Hermione's arm through her own and squeezing slightly, "I thought you and Draco made rather a nice couple too."

"Honestly, Ginny, what does that even mean?"

"I don't know," says Ginny, half laughing, watching Hermione's expression with interest, "Just that you sort of – I don't know – made sense together, in some mental way."

"You saw him at the fundraiser with Astoria-"

"It's not looks, Hermione, it's – " Ginny trails off, and there is something wistful in her eyes, "Sometimes you can just tell – call it witch's intuition, if you like. That night at Millicent's tattoo shop there was something between the two of you – oh, don't look at me like that, maybe I imagined it, alright?"

Hermione wants to tell her that she did imagine it, that it was nothing more than too many fire whiskey's and too little sleep, the kind of recklessness that gets you into trouble, but the memory is too visceral, like a punch to the stomach.

"And," Ginny continues, matter of factly, "Remember what Harry said, after our engagement party? That he was sort of taken with you?"

"Because he decided to use the toilet while I was showering and conveniently naked?"

"You're sort of missing the point."

Hermione glares at her. They're getting a few curious glances, right outside of Ollivander's, Hermione's arms crossed and Ginny's hands on her hips, squaring off while a few nervous eleven-year olds edge around them into the shop.

"What is the point, exactly?" Hermione huffs, glaring at a diminutive boy carrying an overlarge owl.

"That maybe you're too scared of what people will think to pursue the thing that you want!" Ginny exclaims, her face heating up.

Hermione stares at her, the twist of her arms loosening slightly. She suddenly feels very, very tired.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, resignedly, "I'd never – you know me, Ginny."

"Yeah, I do," says Ginny, stubbornly, "And I know that sometimes you make massive sacrifices for the people you love, and you put what you want on the back of the broom."

"On the back of the broom?"

"Not the point."

"Fine," Hermione says, tired of arguing, "You're right. But – I like Viktor. And he's good for me. Malfoy's too – complicated."

Ginny raises a quizzical eyebrow at Hermione. "If you say so."

"I do say so!"

"Fine," Ginny says brightly, "Let's go to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and see what Fred and Lee have got for us today, shall we?"

**One Month Later**

In her long lunches with Ron and Harry, the evenings spent with Ginny drinking wine and commiserating over Quidditch gossip and wedding plans, the many hours she spends in the DRCMC, she begins to argue with Viktor.

He doesn't mind Ginny so much, but he doesn't like her work schedule, the relentless hours she spends trying to expand the funding for Creature Justice, the research she does on disenfranchised magical beings that keeps her up until early morning most nights of the week. He especially doesn't like Harry and Ron, who are the biggest parts of her life other than work, the best friends she has relied on for most of her life

"They're my best friends, Viktor," she explains, for what feels like the hundredth time, "I'm not choosing between them and you. If you want to do this, you're going to have to get used to it."

"But-" he stops, "If you are not in a relationship vith either of them, vhy do you do it?"

"They're like my brothers," she sighs, "Like my family. We've been through a lot together, Viktor. Does that make sense?"

Viktor looks grumpy, resentful, and Hermione suddenly doesn't feel like pacifying him. She is tired of the constant barrage of questions, of his inability to comprehend her relationship with Harry and Ron.

"Look," she says, "I'm just going to go home, alright? I'll talk to you in the morning."

The next day, he brings her white peonies and a picnic lunch, and she almost forgets about the argument altogether. They sit in the park for hours, Viktor relaying stories of his childhood in wizarding Bulgaria. By the time they arrive home, Hermione is half in love with him again, and he pulls her into his bedroom with the kind of look that witches dream about.

Her shirt is halfway over her head when he stops, a hand on her ribcage.

"Vhere did you get this tattoo?"

"What? Oh," Hermione curses herself, her voice an octave higher, "After the war – sort of a reminder, I suppose. Seems a bit stupid now, but – " she runs a finger over the wing, her hand shaking slightly.

"I heard you escaped Gringotts on a dragon," says Viktor, and he doesn't sound as skeptical as a moment before, "Very impressive."

"Not so much impressive as desperate," mutters Hermione, and Viktor ignores her, pulling her closer until her body is flush with his, and they do not speak again.

A few hours later, Viktor breathing slowly next to her, Hermione stares at the ceiling, wide awake, steely grey eyes and white blonde hair obscuring her vision, the dragon pulsing on her ribcage, and a feeling like being adrift in a restless sea.

She is losing sight of shore.

**The Ministry of Magic, Two Weeks Later**

"Give this memo to Belby and make sure he doesn't come back without some sort of answer. I'm not waiting around for his fat arse to – "

Hermione's heart drops at the voice, and her hands begin shaking slightly as she fixes her tea.

"Granger-" Malfoy skids into the break room, a harried looking woman trailing behind him, scribbling on a piece of parchment. "Fiona – will you give us a minute? I need to speak with Granger about the-er, the funding approval."

The woman eyes Hermione and then turns on her heel, shuffling back out into the corridor.

"That was Fiona," says Malfoy, quietly, "My father's secretary. She's been working for Collins and me since he's – indisposed, at the minute."

"Oh," Hermione says, searching wildly for an excuse that will get her out of the break room and back to her office, "That's nice."

"So –"

"Malfoy, I-" Hermione starts, and she is looking around, as if for an escape, "I just don't think it's a good idea that we're-"

"What?" says Malfoy, and his tone is scathing, "That you're talking to me? He's keeping an eye on you, is he?"

"No, he is not," says Hermione, firing up at once, "I don't take orders from him, Malfoy, and I certainly don't take orders from you."

"I never said –"

"Well, you seem to be under the impression that you can somehow – dictate – what I do and who I do it with," she says, and her voice is trembling slightly. "And I just –" she pauses, unable to look at him, "You made your position perfectly clear."

"And what's my position?"

"Don't play games with me, Malfoy."

"It's like you said," he says, shaking his head, a cold rush of resignation rising in his chest, the hurt visible in Hermione's eyes. "It wouldn't have worked."

"Right then," she says, after a moment's pause, "I suppose we're done here."

Malfoy moves slightly, as if to reach out and touch her, as if to pull her back.

"Just – one thing, Granger."

Hermione stops, just before the door, and waits for him to speak, her back to him.

"Is it the same with him? As it was with us?"

And the world seems to cease its spinning for the few seconds it takes her to speak, and when she does, he can hear it in her voice.

"No, Malfoy. It's not."

**The Next Day**

"You vere out late again."

Viktor is in her kitchen, watching her from the countertop as she cleans up the breakfast dishes, a morning shower beating on the windowpanes.

"What do you mean?" Hermione knows exactly what he means. She's been avoiding him again, not _exactly_ on purpose. Just a lot of work and then a late dinner, tiptoeing into her flat and slipping into bed with him in the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep despite how tired she is.

"I mean – with that – group."

"You mean my friends, do you?"

She doesn't see Viktor move, exactly, but suddenly he's got ahold of her upper arm.

"Ow!" she tries to pull away, his fingers digging deeper into her skin, the numbness of the scar beneath tingling slightly.

"Why don't you invite me, Hermy-one? Is it because you're afraid of vhat I might see?"

Hermione yanks her arm away, her heart pounding. "Don't you dare touch me like that, Viktor."

Viktor watches her for a second, breathing hard, his expression hawk-like. After a moment it softens, and he creeps toward her, reaching out to touch her. "Hermy-one – I am sorry – I just – I vant to be a part of your life here – you know that I love you, don't you?"

She flinches slightly and his expression hardens and for the first time, Hermione is just a little bit afraid of him.

I-yes – I'm sorry," she looks up into nearly black eyes, "I suppose I just got so used to being alone I'd forgotten how to – balance everything."

"Vell," he says, pulling her into a one-armed hug, "You're not alone anymore."

**The Leaky Cauldron, One Week Later**

Hermione is leaning up against the bar, sipping her drink, watching the camaraderie around her with little interest. It is another night at the Leaky, another raucous round of drinking games and war stories and pints of butterbeer.

Viktor is absent, working late and attending a dinner with a few of his work associates. Hermione declined the dinner invitation, which makes him surlier than usual. She just can't find it within herself to care much how he feels.

What she does care about are the murmurs that spread like bluebell flames when Draco Malfoy slips through the door like a shadow, Harry shaking his hand and handing him a drink. Hannah Abbott and Ginny shoot him, dirty looks, whispering furiously to each other as he edges over to the bar, eyes trained on the back of Hermione's head.

She isn't in any position to leave now, not when she feels pulled into his orbit, the presence of him making her stomach flip.

"Hermione," he says, and she shivers, willing herself not to turn around.

"I'm not really interested in anything you have to say to me, Malfoy."

"Granger – my apologies for-"

"Can't you just say you're sorry? Does you have to be so damned condescending?" Hermione interrupts, teeth gritted, clenching a fist so tightly her knuckles whiten. Draco is caught off guard for a moment by the vemom in her voice, his pride slipping away like smoke.

"Fine, fine – I'm…. sorry, alright? I'm sorry for ignoring your owls and I'm sorry for taking Astoria to the fundraiser, and I'm sorry I didn't at least explain the situation, but I just thought-"

"What did you think?" says Hermione, pushing off of the bar and turning towards him, letting her breath catch at the flint in his eyes, "That it wasn't worth it? That I wouldn't give a shit if you dropped off the face of the Earth?"

"No that's not it-" he says, pale cheeks reddening in the candelight, "I thought you were – you know. Otherwise occupied. Not interested. Too good for me – which you are, of course, but-"

Hermione shakes her head and frowns down at her drink. There is a moment of silence, a crackling, electric thing, that stretches between them like elastic.

"I guess I – " she says, taking the deepest breath she can possibly muster, "Can't really blame you for that, can I?"

Malfoy smirks. "I suppose I just wanted to save you the trouble of having to explain yourself."

She snorts and rolls her eyes, and the heaviness in Draco's chest seems to lift a bit.

"Can I ask you something?"

Draco nods, finishing his drink.

"Is there something going on with you two?"

"With whom?"

"Astoria."

Malfoy shrugs, fishing a few sickles out of his pocket and dropping them on the bar. "There's been an engagement contract drafted since I was in diapers."

"Oh," says Hermione, trying to sound nonchalant. Why does her stomach feel as if it's about to drop out of her body?

"I said it's been drafted," drawls Malfoy, raising his eyebrows at Hermione's face, "Not that it's been signed. She's after some muggle boy in Kent and I'm – well," he pauses, and Hermione's hands are shaking again, "Not particularly interested in her."

"Oh," Hermione says it again, because she can't think what to say to this, an odd feeling of elation rushing through her.

"Don't worry, Granger, I'm still available."

"I wasn't-" she blusters at this, and he waves a hand at her, grinning. "It was a joke, alright?"

"Too soon," Hermione grumbles, running a hand through her hair, chest fluttering at the half smile suspended on Draco's face.

"Anyways," he says, after a moment's pause, "will you at least call it a truce, at least?" he extends a hand, and Hermione pauses for a second, looking up at him, and then shakes it. It is a firm shake, business like, and Draco tries to ignore the warmth of her palm, pressing into his.

"I think this is the first time we've ever had a civil exchange," says Hermione, pulling her hand out of his and shifting slightly, as if she feels a chill, a shiver down her spine.

"Well, I don't think it's the _first_ time-"

"That doesn't count, you pervert."

"Fair enough."

Malfoy can't help it, remembering the bleary night they tumbled into bed for the very first time, twin dragons tangled together, her name slipping breathless out of his mouth like a prayer, the smell of her embedded in his bed sheets for days afterwards.

Draco leans up against the bar, fighting to keep his expression impassive, watching Harry and Ginny conversing in a nearby booth with Fred and Angelina, collapsing into giggles at some loud comment from Fred.

"They're not so bad, are they?" Hermione says, following his gaze to the booth.

"Depends on your definition of 'so bad," says Malfoy, scathingly.

"Oh, come on- "

"I'm working on it, alright?" says Malfoy, holding up his hands, "Took me awhile to unlearn the deep-rooted stigma of blood traitors. And I do not find the toilet jokes funny, whatever you say."

"I don't either!" Hermione exclaims, and there is a sudden warmth of connection between them, like a reminder of a foreign feeling.

"Maybe that's why we get along so well."

"As of – about," Hermione checks her watch, "Five minutes ago."

"I'd say that deserves a toast," Draco lifts his glass, smirking slightly. "May we always tolerate one another's presence."

"Well said," laughs Hermione, raising her cup to his and then drinking, long and deep.

"So – how's Viktor?"

She rolls her eyes at this and shrugs noncommittally, wondering if he can see her cheeks reddening in the firelight. "He's fine. He's a bit intense, but I'm getting used to it."

"Collins says he's a right wanker."

"And I take it you didn't argue?"

"Granger," Malfoy sighs, "We've discussed this already. I don't like anybody but you."

Hermione rolls her eyes at this and nudges him with her elbow before heading off to join a particularly debauched game of Exploding Snap, and Draco forces out a laugh even though he's not even a little bit joking and follows her into the crowd.

She catches Malfoy looking at her after a few rounds, and he disguises it as an innocent glance around the bar and she feels that ache, again, when he wraps those long, muscular fingers around his glass, licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair.

They accidentally ignited a spark, she thinks, and no matter what she does, it won't go out.

**Hermione's Flat, North London**

Hermione arrives back at her flat after another night of drinks and conversation, the room tilting slightly as she opens the door and fumbles with the lock. Viktor has owled her, his strange, hawkish bird hulking in her living room window, a scarp of parchment tied to his leg.

_I will be there at 12._

_VK_

"Romantic," she scoffs, binning the parchment and letting the owl into the night. She isn't particularly enthused at the idea of Viktor coming over, but she doesn't quite know how to say no. He is her boyfriend, for all intents and purposes, and there are – expectations.

There's that word again. Expectations.

Shaking it out of her mind, she says hello to Crookshanks and then goes to her bedroom and changes into sweatpants, intent on a sobering cup of tea before Krum appears.

She is putting the kettle on when the wards go off, and there is a pit in her stomach that she can't quite name, and suddenly she realizes that she doesn't want to see Viktor Krum at all.

"Hermy-one," he opens the door, shaking off his travel cloak.

"Hi, Viktor," Hermione says, falsely, brightly.

"Vhere vere you?" The question has been asked a thousand times before and it is no less grating now.

"At the Leaky," she looks down, "With some people from work. You know Harry and Ron and some of the Aurors and the rest of the DRCMC."

"Yes," says Viktor, "All them."

There is a pause, as Hermione fiddles with the kettle, Viktor standing in the doorway like some overlarge bird, watching her.

"What?" she says, catching sight of him, of the look on his face, "What is it?"

"I don't vant you to see him anymore," Viktor's voice is low and menacing. His dark, sullen features suddenly take on an almost threatening look, and Hermione backs up, despite herself, her heart pounding.

"See who?" she says, attempting to steady her voice, folding her hands together, suddenly very aware that her wand is sitting on the opposite counter, right behind him.

"Malfoy," he spits, "That Death Eater spawn."

"W-what do you mean?"

"I heard the rumors. I know vhat you did vith him – I know where that tattoo came from. And you lie to me, to my face about him – you act like you are so innocent, so _pure – " _he is nearly frothing at the mouth, advancing on Hermione, and she is scared, as scared as she can ever remember being, "And behind my back you are associating vith that – scum, that vile,"

"I don't know what you're talking about – "

"Don't LIE_-"_

In that moment, Hermione breaks for it, lunging towards her wand, and Viktor's hand connects with her face and she feels it, feels her lip split against her teeth, feels everything blacken as she closes her fingers around the base of her wand and turns into darkness.

Draco hears the knock at his door and sits up, disoriented. He checks his watch and it's late – too late for anyone to be turning up on his doorstep. Vaguely, he wonders if it's a drunken Pansy, looking for a bit of fun. He grabs his wand and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, trudging blearily out into the kitchen.

At first, he knows it's Hermione because of the hair, and he blinks a little, trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Granger, it's one in the morning, what – "

And then she steps into the glow of his kitchen light and he sees her face, chalk white and covered in blood, sporting a spectacular black eye and a bruise on her cheek.

"What the hell – what happened to you?"

"C-can I come inside?" she looks behind her, as if she is expecting someone to appear out of the dark.

"Hermione," he breaths, stepping aside to let her in and locking the door behind her, "Hermione – who did this to you?"

And she looks away from him for just long enough, and he knows.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, defeated, and somehow the defeat is worse than tears, worse than seeing her like this, "I didn't really mean to end up here, I just…didn't know where else to go – I'm sorry to bother you."

His face is stony. "Don't fucking apologize. Where is he?"

"Malfoy, no," she reaches for his arm, "You can't. It's not – I don't want you getting in trouble. You don't need that."

"Don't tell me what to do," he says, his voice low and dangerous, trying to contain the fury that is coursing through him, "Where is he?"

She looks up at him, and he sees the fear in her eyes, the utter lostness.

"My flat."

Draco disappears into his room and emerges a few minutes later fully dressed, in a traveling cloak.

"Stay here."

"But –"

"I said _stay here_, Granger."

**Hermione's Flat, Thirty Minutes Later**

Viktor knows she is coming back. It's her flat, after all, and he's not going to leave until she does, until she apologizes.

He's sitting at the kitchen table when he hears the door open, and he stands, expecting her to shuffle through it.

"Hermy-one-"

But it isn't Hermione Granger that steps through the door. He is much taller than Viktor remembers, much broader in the shoulders, but the white blonde hair and pointed chin are unmistakable. Petulant, arrogant Draco Malfoy has somehow morphed into something far more alarming.

His eyes are flashing, but his face is surprisingly blank.

"You expected her to come back here, did you?" he says, but it is more of a hiss.

Viktor does not say anything, his lip curling, and suddenly Malfoy moves so fast Krum could have sworn he apparates across the room. In a second, Malfoy has him pinned against the wall, Krum's feet barely brushing the floor, his forearm shoved against his throat.

Krum struggles and Malfoy's grip falters for a second, but then his knee connects with Krum's stomach and knocks the air out of his chest and he is gasping, choking, barely able to stay upright.

"If you ever lay a hand on her again, Krum, I will kill you. I don't care how long it takes me, and I don't care if I end up in Azkaban for it. I'll kill you."

"Empty threats," Krum spits, struggling against Malfoy's grip. He is stronger than Krum remembers, stronger and taller, menace dancing around every word he utters.

"Try me," he whispers, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the mangled grey scar on his forearm, "I sold my soul to the Dark Lord, remember?"

Krum is choking now, unable to breathe, his eyes rolling back. After a minute, Draco lets him drop to the floor, clutching his throat.

"Now," Draco drawls, pointing his wand at Krum, "Get the fuck out of her flat."

Draco secures her flat after Krum stumbles out into the night and manages to apparate abruptly, the adrenaline in his veins subsiding into something manic.

She is pacing in his kitchen, twisting her fingers together, her stomach in knots, when he enters the flat, disheveled and shaken, but unharmed.

"What happened?" she asks, freezing at the sight of him. He feels sick at the purpling of the bruise on her cheek, her lips crusted in dried blood.

"Let's clean you up first," he says, quietly, pulling out his wand. Slowly, methodically, he begins to clean the blood off her face, to heal the black eye and the split lip, until she is pale but looks unscathed.

"What did you do?" she asks again, a nervousness entering her voice. He wonders if she fears what he is capable of, of what he is willing to do for this girl with the twin blue dragon.

"Listen to me," he says, pocketing his wand and pulling Hermione towards him until she is pressed against his chest, "No one's ever going to do that to you again. Not while I'm around. Not – this time."

She catches the meaning in those words, and as she closes her eyes, she sees a flash of a white face against an ornate ceiling as she screams and screams on the carpet below.

Hermione nods, and Draco can feel her nodding, and he relaxes, just a little bit.

And then she speaks. "I shouldn't have let him in, Malfoy, I shouldn't have- I know better than that, I just -" and she is dissolving, finally, into tears.

"No," Draco's voice is harsh and dangerous again, his entire body tensing against the words, "You can say whatever you like about Krum, but that was not your fault, Hermione."

And slowly, incredibly, Hermione lets herself believe it for now, for tonight, because she can see the pain in those steel grey eyes, the agony and the terror, and she can't do anything but pull him closer and cry into his stupid, expensive t shirt.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" he says, still holding her to him, "I can sleep on the couch."

"No," she says, pulling back and sniffling, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, "I should go back to my flat. I know it sounds ridiculous but Crooks sort of – worries if I don't tell him where I'm going."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She looks up at him, and it is written all over her face.

And so, he wraps an arm around her, and they turn once more into darkness.

When they arrive back at Hermione's flat, Krum is gone. Nobody but Crookshanks remains, reproachfully curled on the sofa. Hermione hangs up her coat and begins to clear up the glasses on the table with shaking hands.

"Listen," says Draco, watching her clean, a pit in his stomach, "I'll stay here, as long as you like. I'll just sleep on the couch – as long as that cat doesn't mind," he gestures at Crookshanks, who gives him what can only be described as a suspicious look.

"Well, alright, then," she says, unsure of what else to say. "There's a blanket and a spare pillow in the hall closet I can get for you, if you like."

And she lets him doze on the couch for a little while, but when the clock strikes three, Draco is awakened by a blanket laden apparition in the doorway.

"Hi," she says, nervously.

"Hello," Draco replies, his voice heavy with sleep, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, it's just –" she takes a deep breath, "I can't sleep and I thought – well, my bed's really too big for one person, so –I really wouldn't mind if you wanted to…" she trails off, gesturing in the direction of her bedroom.

Draco's heart jumps uncomfortably in his chest.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," Draco says, too tired to argue, rolling off the couch and padding after her into the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Her lamp is on, and it illuminates the blue and white patchwork quilt on her bed, rumpled from sleep, and a comical stack of books propped precariously on her nightstand. Draco fights back a laugh as she climbs into bed, pulls the coverlet up to her chin and looks up at him.

"No snoring," she says, "And no kicking."

Draco rolls his eyes and climbs into the other side, reveling in the softness of the mattress and the way the sheets smell like apples and vanilla.

And sometime in the early hours of the she drifts towards him, and his arm creeps over her side until they are curled together, and sleep is, for once, dreamless.

When Hermione finally wakes up, she feels it immediately. She is nauseous and her face is aching, but the overwhelming feeling is of smallness, of utter insignificance, of helplessness. When she rolls over, she is surprised to see the bed empty, a hollow where Draco's body was. She remembers the warmth of him with a shiver.

Hermione gets out of bed, pulling her fluffy pink dressing gown on, and stops in the bathroom to assess her appearance. Where Draco learned to heal like that, she isn't sure, but she looks normal, if a little pale, the circles under her eyes dark and smudgy.

The kitchen is warm, the lights on, and Draco Malfoy is standing by the kettle, one of Hermione's many runes magazines open on the counter next to him. He looks up abruptly when she enters.

"You alright, Granger?" Draco is rumpled, wearing his black t shirt and sweatpants from the night before, hair mussed, longer than Hermione remembers it. There is something about his unaffected appearance, the concern in his voice, that lightens the leaden feeling in Hermione's chest.

"I'm alright," she says, managing a small smile, "Are you making tea, by any chance?"

"I'm afraid I'm not very adept in the kitchen," says Draco, a little sheepishly, "But – here." He pours her a mug and hands it to her, watching as she blows on it.

"Did you sleep alright?" she asks, and it is as if they are dancing around something so much bigger, and neither of them will believe it's real.

"Yeah, except some mental witch woke me up at 3 in the morning and tried to get me into bed with her."

Hermione laughs, and the kitchen is suddenly filled with sunshine. She sips the tea, which is too hot and too weak, trying to conceal her now burnt tongue with a cough. Draco flips through the magazine, steeling himself, Crooks pacing the table like a tiny orange sentinel.

"Granger," he says, after a moment, "If you – want to talk about anything, you can talk to me."

Hermione raises her eyebrows, not bothering to conceal the surprise that crosses her face.

"I – thank you, Malfoy, that means a lot."

"I just-" and he is struggling now, "Don't want you to feel like – you deserved that. Like you deserved any of that-" and he nods towards her arm, and she catches that look in his eyes, a little like anguish.

She nods, because she does not know what to say, exactly, or how to tell him that it is possible for someone to make you feel a little less worthless. Maybe someday, Hermione will be able to put into words what it means that he's just _here_, reading a runes magazine and making cups of terrible tea.

"Can I just ask you one more thing?"

"Yes?" she says, and Draco's heart catches a little at the way she's clasping the mug of tea and looking up at him.

"Why did you – come to me? Instead of Harry or Ron?"

Hermione sighs and glances down into her drink before speaking. "I don't know, Draco. I think I just – Ron and Harry have their partners, you know? They'd go to Gabrielle and Ginny before me. I'm happy for them, I am, but I just needed – it's hard to explain." She looks up at him, at a loss for words, "I knew you wouldn't pity me, or try and give me a talking to, or anything."

There is a brief and loaded pause, and Crookshanks jumps down from the table, watching them both intently, bottle brush tail flicking back and forth.

"And look, Draco – " she begins, and like every time she uses his first name, Draco feels his heart jump, "I just wanted to say –"

Draco interrupts her, waving a hand. "You don't have to, Granger. It's alright."

"You don't know what I was going to say," Hermione says, that familiar bossiness creeping in. Draco inclines his head slightly, and she continues.

"Thank you," she says, earnestly, "For everything. And I'm – I'm sorry. For never telling you how I felt," and for a second, Draco forgets how to breathe, "Because if I'm being perfectly honest, I think I might –"

And then, Hermione Granger runs out of words.

She puts the mug of tea down and gets up, crossing the kitchen in that stupid fluffy pink robe, and before Draco has a second to think or feel anything at all, she's kissing him.

They've kissed in the heat of the moment; in anger or in curiosity or in drunkenness, but this kiss is different. He feels it, the sincerity of it all. The thousands of things that were unsaid in angry glances or too late nights, all of those things are inconsequential now because the only thing that matters; that really matters, is her.

_Her_.

And Draco pulls away, his hands tangled in her hair and asks the question he's been asking himself since she agreed to get that stupid tattoo, since she kissed him in the Leaky that night and every day afterwards.

"But – why?"

He almost doesn't need to ask, because he can see it written all over her face, and it is as redundant as the day is long when she finally speaks, a smile curling the corners of that too-pink mouth.

"It's not like this with anyone else."

Of course it fucking isn't, Draco thinks, running his hands under her arse and yanking her to him, shifting her weight to the counter top and pressing his mouth to hers, reveling in the feel of her beneath his palms.

They have been kissing for a few minutes, or perhaps several long, sunlit days when Hermione finally pulls away, one eye on the kitchen clock. "Is that the time? Merlin's saggy left-"

"If you don't want to go to work today, you don't have to-" Draco says, uncharacteristically flustered, letting her scramble out from underneath him with something like wonder in his eyes.

"No," says Hermione, flatly, straightening the front of her robe, "I'm not letting him have that satisfaction. And besides, Draco, although you might be considered a war criminal, I'm a member of the Wizengamot _and_ I've got an Order of Merlin-"

"Are you saying that you'd abuse your power just to give that filthy piece of scum what he deserves?"

Hermione's smile is immediate, brilliant and conniving. The funny thing about love is that it is perverse and inconvenient and unpredictable, and Draco Malfoy has guessed at love a hundred times, but he knows he is in love with Hermione Granger when she threatens revenge on Viktor Krum.

A few weeks later, with no explanation whatsoever, Viktor Krum loses his job and returns to Bulgaria, creeping off with his tail between his legs. The assistant in charge of processing the paperwork regarding his dismissal loses the report and then a few other reports, but somehow this goes completely unpunished by both the Ministry. Quite a few members of the International Quidditch Federation are left scratching their heads, but eventually Viktor Krum is nothing but a distant memory.

In the end, Hermione thinks that it is not that Draco saved her, not really. It's that he made her realize that she is worthy of saving, that her value as a person isn't tied to how smart or how successful she is – that is she is no less deserving of love because of her past. Just like him.

And it is somehow very hopeful knowing that a person can change the way you see yourself – not change you, not really, but change the way that you look at yourself in the mirror in the mornings. That your scars and your tattoos make you the person you are. Intricate and fucked up, reminders of your past and reassurance for the future. You are never destined to be just one thing.

She knows this deep down, a fact as incontrovertible and immutable as gravity.

In the months that follow, Fleur Delacour gives birth to a girl that she names Victoire. Draco and Hermione are learning each other all over again, and the process is just as messy and wonderful as she always thought it would be. Ron and Gabrielle are engaged by the end of the year, and Ginny starts throwing up her own breakfasts a few months after her wedding.

Everyone gets used to Malfoy eventually, although some are a bit more open to a burgeoning friendship than others. Nobody really expects Fred and Draco to get along as well as they do, but soon they are thick as thieves and Draco's got a sizeable investment in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Lucius and Narcissa are predictably displeased, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger understandably confused, but time has a funny way of mellowing and transforming, and there's not a dry eye in the room when Hermione and Draco tumble into their sitting rooms a year later, a gold band glinting on Hermione's ring finger.

And life is, of course, not just the good parts but the hard parts and the sad parts and the parts that are listless and dull, but there is more joy in the little moments than Hermione and Draco can ever remember there being before. And in love – in growth, in change, in hard work – in doubt and inevitable trauma and sadness and guilt – there is something worthwhile that grows and changes every year.

When Hermione finally gives birth to a tiny, blond boy that they will name Scorpius, Draco takes a picture of her cradling the baby in their bed and keeps it in his pocket every day afterwards. The picture is black and white, Hermione's hair bushy and wild, Scorpius cooing up at her and shaking his tiny fists.

And just barely visible beneath the crook of her arm climbs a tiny, blue dragon.


End file.
